Stones and Bones
by Haleine Delail
Summary: It's clash of the titans when Sherlock Holmes and Temperance Brennan work together to catch a murderer! Two great geniuses come to the table, each with their own effective methods, amazing insights and pig-headed bias. But they each also bring with them their wing men who know how to tame the insanity of genius. So which one of them will solve the case?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I am taking a temporary break from Doctor Who in order to explore some ideas I've been having over the past summer and spring. To me, this is kinds of 'Clash of the Titans' story, in fact, it was tempting to title it as such. Obviously, I am not the insane, pedantic genius that my protagonists are (well, not pedantic and not a genius anyway), so I hope you'll take the genius dialogue with a grain of salt.**

**This is my very first attempt at writing for _Sherlock_, so please be kind! Also, I am aware of some holes in the story, as far as British law and law enforcement. Frankly, the point of the story was the insights gleaned from my four protagonists, and how it all fits together, so I didn't spend a lot of time poring over criteria for making an arrest for murder in Britain. **

**Hopefully, even if you are not a fan of both, but rather just one, of the series, you can still enjoy this. Suffice it to say, Brennan and Sherlock have much in common... and yet...**

* * *

John Watson had been waiting for the past thirty minutes in a mini-diner inside Heathrow Airport known as Downing Street. The walls were lined with with doors, a few of which were labeled with the number "10." In anticipation of the experience she knew was coming, he would have liked to have had a Scotch and soda, but he wanted to remain sharp so he'd gone with a coffee, black.

From around a corner appeared a tall, broad man, an American, wearing jeans, a burgundy tee-shirt and a brown leather bomber's jacket. He had a duffel bag flung over his shoulder, and at his middle, he wore a red belt buckle that said "Cocky."

He was paying rapt attention to the woman walking beside him, a striking, classically beautiful brunette with a leather satchel weighing down one arm and a mobile phone at her ear. She was rather on the voluptuous side, and wore a bright turquoise-coloured button-up shirt with a black blazer, black leggings and knee-length leather boots. John stood up as the couple approached.

"Make sure she doesn't sleep more than fifteen hours a day, Dad," she was saying into her phone, more loudly than she should. "Too much sleep can slow cognitive development. And make sure she plays with her colored blocks at least fifteen minutes per day, and does the DVD activity with color/animal association with auditory triggers. The DVD is on the second shelf in the cabinet next to the television, in the section labeled _educational_, semicolon, _three to six months._"

"Bones, just…ugh, give me the phone," the broad man said as he took the gadget out of her hand and began speaking. "Max? Is she good?"

John took the opportunity to introduce himself.

"Ahem," he began. "Dr. Brennan, I presume?"

The woman seemed to see him for the first time, even though she had followed her partner to this spot, and they had stopped there, clearly seeking out John Watson himself.

"Oh! You must be Dr. Watson," she exclaimed with a warm smile. She shook his hand. "Booth has told me a lot about you!"

"Likewise," he said. He smiled and turned his head a bit. "I found it very interesting that the whole time we were doing training drills together in Afghanistan, he had this gorgeous new girlfriend, but all he wanted to talk about was you."

Brennan replied, "That's because he was in love with me, but at the time I was unwilling, and in a manner of speaking, unable, to return his affection. Booth has since acknowledged to me that though he professed to being in love with Hannah, she actually served only as a poor substitute for me."

Watson smiled. _Well, Booth had said she was direct_, he thought. "Yes, well…"

"So, Dr. Watson, I'm very much looking forwared to filling in the gaps left open by your limited expertise," she said brightly.

"Right, right," Watson said, adopting his sarcastic coping-with-a-socially-questionable-pedantic-genius air that had served him so well over the past eighteen months. Although he had to admit, Brennan's smile and excited demeanour were a nice change from the dark moods of his clever flatmate. "I'm merely a decorated military captain with sniper training and an M.D. from a renowned university. Practically a grammar school dropout."

Dr. Brennan frowned a bit, not sure what to say, or even what he meant. She did not consider him "practically a grammar school dropout;" merely not as well-schooled as she, which is basically what she had said. And most people in the world were less-well-schooled than she – it was nothing to be ashamed of. She didn't understand what the issue was.

"Okay Max, thanks again, and give her a kiss for me," Booth said into the phone, and he pressed a button to end the call.

"Is he going to have her do the activities?" Brennan asked anxiously.

Booth sighed. "She's with her grandpa, she's fine. That's all you need to know, okay?"

"Is that…" John said, searching in his brain bank for the name of Booth and Brennan's child, of whose existence he had learned no more than three days prior. "Christine?"

"Yeah!" Booth answered boisterously, reaching out for the good doctor's hand. "John! Great to see you!"

The men briefly exchanged a _man hug_ which consisted of right hands joined in a shake, one half-step forward each, and left hands touching each others backs for no longer than one second.

"Great to see you too, Booth," Watson replied. "Thank you for coming."

"Hey, no problem," Booth assured him. "It's what we do, right Bones?"

"Yes. We often step in and lend our respective abilities when others fall short," she replied.

Watson shook his head inwardly. "Er, do you have baggage?"

"Nope, just our carry-ons," Booth told him.

"Well, then," Watson said. He reached one hand out toward 's shoulder. "May I?"

"Oh. Thank you," she said, handing over her bag.

The two Americans followed Dr. Watson down the terminal, following signs which let them know where to catch a taxi.

No one said much of anything until they were safely crammed into the back seat of a shiny black car, headed too fast down the motorway toward London.

"So tell us about the case, Dr. Watson," Brennan requested.

"Er, you can call me John, if you'd like, Dr. Brennan," he said.

"All right, John," she said, without extending him the same courtesy.

"Well, we were called in on the case because frankly, Scotland Yard was a bit at a loss," Watson explained. "It's kind of what _we_ do as well. In this case, it was a guy who seems to have been crushed by a boulder out in the middle of nowhere."

"What do you mean _the middle of nowhere_?" she asked. "All places in existence are, by definition, _somewhere_."

"He just means out in the boonies," Booth said.

"The what?"

"The boonies. The styx. The back of beyond. BFE."

"I don't know what any of that means."

"Far from civilization, Bones," Booth explained with a sigh.

"How is that _nowhere_?"

Watson tried to ignore her meticulous inquisitiveness, though he knew he wouldn't be able to do so for too long, and he knew, his flatmate wouldn't be able to ignore her at all.

"That's right, he was found in a heath between London and Surrey. No discernible civilisation within sight, that is to say, no town, no church, not even a petrol station. Only a relatively un-frequented road and a giant boulder, which brings us to our little mystery."

"Okay, go on," Booth encouraged.

"The body is devoid of flesh and the clothing is non-descript," Watson continued. "And the skeleton is shattered from the pelvis on up."

"And you've ruled out _farmer looks to change careers, and levitation experiment goes horribly wrong_?" asked Booth.

"Yes, actually, we have," answered Watson with a slight smile.

"Well, then, I'm stumped."

"The skeleton is devoid of flesh, so, presumably devoid of most gender markers discernible to a layman…" Brennan said, and she gestured at Watson when she said the word _layman_.

"Thank you," Watson said sarcastically.

"…so how do you know it's a _guy_?"

"Well, just the clothes," he said.

"You said they were non-descript."

"Non-descript," Watson chuckled. "But certainly gender-specific. And I know what you're going to say next, Dr. Brennan, and you're right: not much can be told from the pure appearance of the clothing. So… we don't know much, frankly."

"And your partner is not able to investigate the particulates, the thread-type, the isotopes in the pieces of bone?" she wanted to know.

Watson smiled. "Well, once in a while he'll sit down at a microscope, but all of that is really not his arena. He's much more successful as an… observer, if you will."

"And observer? I thought you said he was a genius," she said to Booth.

"He is," Booth told her. "I've read all about him – John keeps a blog. He's incredible, really."

"What are his credentials?"

"A bunch of bad guys in prison…" Booth began.

"…and a thoroughly irritated police force," Watson finished with a bit of proud satisfaction.

"The geographical locale of criminals and the emotional state of law enforcement professionals hardly qualifies as credentials for a third party!" she protested.

"Bones, what do you want? Not every genius in the world has eight Ph.D's. Just relax. Give the guy a chance," Booth soothed.

"This man, this _observer, _as you call him, is an expert consultant? How can a world-renowned crime-fighting unit like Scotland Yard employ a man whose methods are unproven?" she protested further.

"Excuse me – unproven?" John Watson interjected.

"Yes. Real efficacy requires hypothesis, experimentation, repetition, and most importantly, documentation."

"You're describing the scientific method, Dr. Brennan," Watson pointed out. "Not everything is black and white like science."

"I find that black and white are the only satisfactory colors – metaphorically speaking – in which facts can appear. Shades of grey do not stand up to time, nor do they stand up in court."

"Would you like the read the files on criminals that my partner has helped take off the streets?" Watson challenged.

"I'd like to read what he's published."

Watson smiled and sat back in his seat, staring amusedly out the window.

"What's so funny?" Brennan asked.

"Nothing, nothing," said Watson.

"No really, I'd like to know."

"Dr. Brennan, I'm merely sharing a joke with the voices in my head, since there's so much empty space up there."

Watson stole a glance at Booth. He was smiling, enjoying watching his friend and his partner spar. Whose side he was on, Watson could not tell.

Brennan looked at Booth for an answer to the conundrum that was Watson's silence. All Booth could or would do was shrug with a smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

The trio climbed the steps at 221 Baker Street.

"Is this where your partner lives?" asked Brennan as she looked instinctively up toward the landing.

"Yes," said Watson. "It's also where I live."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "So he's your romantic and sexual partner, as well as your crime-fighting partner."

"Er, no," Watson answered, annoyingly accustomed to this question. "I'm seeing a woman named Pamela, and my partner – my flatmate – is… well, that's just not his thing."

"What do you mean?" asked Booth. "What _is_ his thing?"

"I don't think he has a _thing,_" answered Watson. "Well, gee, that came out wrong, didn't it? I just mean… you sort of have to meet him."

By this point, they were standing outside of flat B, where the door was uncharacteristically shut, but not locked. John put his hand on the doorknob and said, "Brace yourselves."

He opened the door, and the visitors followed him inside.

As they entered, they spied a man across the room with his back to them, staring out of a window, arms at his sides, legs spread to shoulder-length apart. He was reasonably tall, had luxurious jet-black hair and wore a pair of woolen suit trousers and a white dress shirt.

"Hello," John said.

"Hi," the man replied. He had a deep, clear voice that seemed to seal off the room, that pervaded all of the air and made one feel as though it was the only thing that existed in the flat.

Metaphorically, of course. To Dr. Brennan, this sensation was a passing fancy, replaced by the more rational idea that a voice was not a _thing_, per se, and that she had simply been somewhat inexplicably startled by the man's presence, and taken by the deep voice.

"This is Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, and Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," John Watson said.

"If they are the so-called experts, you can put them back in the cab and send them home," the man with the deep voice said, without turning around.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan," John sighed. "Meet Sherlock Holmes."

"Hi," Booth tried.

A long silence ensued, in which Booth and Brennan half-expected a greeting from the strange man named Sherlock, but none came.

"Sherlock," John sighed again. "These people have just come across an ocean. The least you can do is be reasonable."

Sherlock turned suddenly and faced them with his narrow black eyes. He spoke quickly and crisply. "Sorry, yes. Hello. Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, it is indeed lovely to make your acquaintance. I do apologise for my impertinence in suggesting you go back home in a taxi – what was I thinking? I know a man, just down the block – he has a kayak (God only knows why). Perhaps he'd let you borrow it."

With that, he turned and stalked over to the hearth as though it had just appeared in the room and were his long-lost friend. He began searching through the cigar box on the mantle, through a potted plant and between books strewn about. "Where are they?" he demanded.

"You know I'm not going to tell you that," replied Watson, calmly.

"Wow!" Dr. Brennan exclaimed with a big smile. She looked at Booth. "And you think I'm socially retarded."

Sherlock stood up straight and faced them again. "Compared to me, Dr. Brennan, I'd wager you're a regular _allegro con brio_ in the social department. Tell me, how was Guatemala?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh," she said. "It was… fine." She was a little surprised at the question – how was he to know she'd been to Guatemala?

Sherlock stared at her and blinked several times.

She realized what he had realized, and touched her earrings, the wood-carved souvenirs she had brought back from her last trip. "You have recognized the simian mountain god."

"You can tell what those things are?" asked Booth, squinting and taking one of the earrings in his hand to examine it. "They look like amoeba to me."

"Yes, I can tell what they are. Her earrings are clearly in the shape of the mountain which seems to form the head of an animorphic, simian face pointing toward the sky. A god in some parts of Guatemala. Amoeba are totally different – what books have you been reading?" Sherlock explained to him, in rapidfire language.

Booth let out a slow whistle. "What did we tell you, Bones? I've read about this on the blog…" He reached into his pocket in search of his iPhone, preparing to show John Watson's detailed website to his partner.

"These are hardly genius powers of observation, Booth!" she responded. "Anyone who has watched a Discovery Channel special on Central America, _or_ indigenous gods _or_ perhaps even monkeys, might know that!"

"I don't have time for sceptics. Get in your kayak and go home," Sherlock told them.

"I'm skeptical, Mr. Holmes, of anyone who claims to be a genius with powers of observation, first of all, because the very notion is absurd. The results yielded from observation without hypothesis and experimentation are unprovable and a waste of time. It's worse than psychology," she lectured.

Agent Booth sucked in air through his teeth. "Ooh, and that's saying something. She _really_ hates psychology."

"And I'm skeptical secondly because you're clearly trying to show off for us, and all you have managed to come up with is some rudimentary information which give you no insights into anything meaningful. You know I have travelled to Guatemala, but what does that even tell you about me, that you can verify? What's more, you came across this information by looking at my earrings, which are ornamental by definition and designed to attract attention. A child could have done it. And the fact that you know about the simian mountain god is merely a coincidence."

Sherlock smirked and took a step forward. He narrowed his eyes further. "It's meaningful you want?" he growled at her. "Fine. You and Agent Booth are a crime-fighting team out of D.C. am I correct?"

"Er, to be fair, Sherlock," John interjected. "I did tell you that much."

"But that's all you told me, John, because I very wisely cut you off before you could cloud up my brain box any more with trivialities about people I have no intention of meeting," Sherlock said, still looking intensely at Dr. Brennan.

"What? You're meeting us now!" protested Brennan.

"Unintentionally," Sherlock corrected. "Therefore, John, you did not tell me that these two are a couple."

"That's true," John said to Booth and Brennan. "I didn't tell him that."

"But clearly you are. I could tell by the way Agent Booth looked at your earring. He reached out and took it in his hand to examine it. His hand came very near your neck and face, both well-established erogenous zones, and both _verboten_ areas when one wishes to grant so-called _personal space_ to another party. There was no delicacy nor decorum in his actions – a man who had merely a professional relationship with you would at least have shown a tightness of the shoulders, if he reached out at all. Which he likely wouldn't."

"That's ridiculous," she said. "You have no basis for any of this."

"But I'm not wrong, am I? Then there's the way that you reacted to him, that is to say, you did not react at all. A professional relationship brings with it certain boundaries, usually a hands-off boundary, which, once crossed, is met with a recoil from the other party. Moreover, if you were involved in a professional but perhaps a restrained, sexually-charged, but unfulfilled partnership, you would likely have held your breath as he touched you."

"Ridiculous."

"But I'm not wrong. And you have an infant daughter, do you not?"

Brennan didn't say anything, but Booth crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Yeah," as if to ask, _what of it?_

"Agent Booth reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile phone, and when the phone emerged from the lint-infested pouch, it carried with it a fragment of ribbon in Pepto-Bismol pink. I could tell from the moment I saw you, Dr. Brennan, that you had recently given birth because you have, forgive me, some quite formidable curves. You have rounded breasts, hips, abdomen and thighs but consider the blouse you're wearing, the leggings, the boots. You dress as though you are a much slimmer woman. This tells me that the weight-gain is recent and came on all at once. Given your education, position and undoubted self-discipline, the most likely scenario is… baby."

"I don't know whether to laugh out loud or punch you in the face," Booth said to Sherlock Holmes.

"Welcome to my world," muttered John Watson.

"Now, judging from the _Cocky_ belt buckle which advertises your personality four inches from your groin, Agent Booth, I'm going to guess that you're a man who does not make a habit out of wearing pink ribbons – at least not anywhere near your FBI-issued suit. The logical explanation, since she is your romantic partner and is a recent mother, is that the two of you have a baby girl."

"That is not a _logical_ conclusion," Brennan said. "That is calculated speculation. You are misusing the word _logic_."

"But I'm not wrong. Am I?"

Her jaw tightened. "No," she conceded.

"I've not been wrong since you arrived, have I?"

Now her back teeth were grinding. "No."

"Since you've just come from the aeroport, I'd say that you have a relative staying with your daughter – probably a grandparent."

"That's a guess."

Sherlock looked away from her for the first time in several minutes. "Perhaps," he said, stepping back. "But a good one. There's no sign of spat-up or spilled milk or baby food, no drool spots on either of your clothing. This probably means that you handed off the baby to the caretaker before you were dressed, and it's not very probable that the two of you, Agent Cocky and Dr. Discipline, would have allowed anyone but a relative to see you in your dressing gowns."

"Do you have kids?" Booth asked.

"God, no," Sherlock replied, staring Agent Booth directly in the eyes. It was the first thing he had said slowly since they arrived.

"Tell you what, man," Booth said with a bitter laugh. "Thank God for that."

"I'd say it was probably your mother," said Sherlock.

"Her mother is dead," Booth said solemnly.

"So is his," Brennan pointed out, without the solemnity.

"What was your mother's name?" Sherlock asked Brennan.

"Christine," she answered, knowing what was coming next.

Sherlock looked at Booth. "Was it your idea to name your daughter Christine?"

"Yes," Booth conceded.

"You display reverence when you discuss Dr. Brennan's dead mother, but you did not mention your own."

"Bones' mother was murdered," Booth said. "Mine… not so much."

Sherlock looked at Dr. Brennan. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did you examine her bones?"

"Yes, how did you know that?" she asked.

"I didn't. It was just a question."

"You are super-creepy, pal," Booth said.

"Well said," Sherlock replied with a smile. "So, Dr. Brennan, is all of this meaningful enough for you?"

What followed was a staring contest, a standoff between two great minds, two stubborn personalities two monstrous egos.

John cleared his throat. "Dr. Brennan, would you like to see the crime scene photos?"

"Yes, very much," she answered, secretly relieved to have something to think about for a few moments, other than Sherlock Holmes.

"John, I told you," Sherlock interrupted, teeth clenched. "I do not need their help."

"Yes you do. Now sit down and shut up," John said calmly.

Sherlock sat, but he did not shut up. He sulked like a very intense child. "This is a big blooming waste of my time," he complained.

"Yes, because when we walked in, you seemed thoroughly involved in solving all the problems of the world," John commented, deadpan. "Tremendously taxing."

"How many times do I have to tell you? Just because you can't _see_ my work, doesn't mean it's not happening," Sherlock reminded him. Then he let out an exasperated puff of air from between his lips. "How could I expect you lot to understand?"

"Us lot?" asked Dr. Brennan. "Who lot?"

"_You_ lot," he spat. "The demonstrative, the average, the people who _do _instead of _see_. People always _doing, doing, doing,_ like a bunch of bees in a hive. It's almost cute."

"Did you just call me _average_?" she asked, now visibly angry.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm sure you are one of the best in your field," Sherlock conceded, staring straight ahead from his position in his armchair. He had said the words _your field_ with disdain, as though he disapproved of the concept. "And that's lovely. Buzz buzz buzz."

"Are you implying that I'm a drone, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, do you want me to come right out and say it?" Sherlock asked, getting back to his feet.

"Whoa, okay, okay…" Agent Booth attempted, also trying to step between Brennan and Holmes, but both of them stepped forward.

"The little nest, the little hive you call a lab in the tree you call forensics – it's admittedly useful, on occasion, but limiting. Forensic anthropology may yield but a tiny piece of the puzzle, which is, undoubtedly, why you work with a team at the Jeffersonian, am I correct?"

"I never said she was a forensic anthropologist," Watson pointed out.

Sherlock's face scrunched up, as though he could not divine why oh why his flatmate could be so dim. "Her partner calls her _Bones_, what else could she be? And really I should have known." His voice was now mocking, matching the evil sparkle in his eye and the sardonic, indulgent grin.

"Holmes, I want you to tread lightly," Booth said.

"Yeah, yeah, Hulk Smash," Sherlock dismissed. "I should have known that Dr. Brennan could only be a forensic anthropologist. The dry personality, the close-minded world-view… of course she could only work with the dull, dry world of bones which are only consulted as a last resort when the flesh is gone."

Brennan was absolutely panting with rage now. She had never had someone attack her in this way.

"Mr. Holmes!" she shouted.

"Okay, look…" now Watson tried.

"I should have known. Only the driest and most uninteresting of people hide behind a mere Ph.D."

"A mere Ph.D.?" she shot at him, practically shaking. "First of all, I don't just have _a _Ph.D., I have several. And second of all, a doctorate is the highest level of education one can earn in a particular area, Mr. Holmes…"

"Exactly. In a particular area. I, good Dr. Brennan, never limited myself to a field, neither to the simplistic doledrums of pure science nor to the intangible absurdity of literature. I have never confined myself to a finite area of study because I find that it makes the big picture much narrower. The whole world is my university, and I don't need a glorified trade school diploma to let everyone know that I know how to read books – I have my own internal real-life credentials. But if you feel the need to externalise your accomplishments in order to be convinced of their merit, then I completely understand. Carry on, then."

"All right, enough!" John Watson cried out, raising his voice for the first time since… well, probably months. "Sherlock, you're being incredibly rude, and I think you should apologise."

"You do it," Sherlock muttered. "I have to go wash my hair."

In spite of himself, John Watson said, "Dr. Brennan, I apologise on behalf of my friend, but to be fair, you condemned his methods just a few minutes ago in very much the same way as he is attacking yours. I'm afraid the two of you are at an impasse. Would you like to see the photos?"

He handed her a photo depicting a skeleton whose legs, ankles and feet were in fine shape, but the rest, from the pelvis on up, was broken into a million pieces. She also looked at a photo of a plaid red shirt, torn in several places and dirty, along with a pair of brown work pants and clunky work boots.

"The clothing seems to be made for a male, but the victim is female," Brennan said.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"I'd have to examine the pelvis personally in order to be sure, but I'm fairly confident I'll find that the victim is female."

"The pelvis is shattered into a thousand pieces, just like the ribs, arms, clavicle, vertebrae, skull and all places in-between that are above the waist."

"I'll re-construct it," she said smugly. "It's one of the things I learned how to do in my glorified trade school."

"The victim is not female!" he spat. He grabbed the picture out of her hand and sqinted at it. "And anyway, how could you possibly know that?"

"With my _keen powers of observation,_ Mr Holmes," she mocked. "And several Ph.D.'s."


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper had received the call just after Dr. Brennan had identified the body as female. John Watson had called and asked for access to the remains, and Molly, unable to deny Sherlock Holmes of anything he wanted or needed, acquiesced. She was as surprised as anyone by this assessment – she had assumed, along with everyone else, that the remains were male.

The surly private detective came blustering through the door of the lab, and said a grudging hello.

"Molly Hooper, meet Agent Booth of the FBI and Dr. Brennan of the Jeffersonian," said Watson.

"Pleased to meet you," Molly lilted with a shy smile. She kept one eye on Sherlock as he approached the slab where the bones had been laid out, as per their request.

The five of them then stood around the bones.

"Do you really think you can reconstruct the skeleton, ?" Molly asked.

"I know I can, Miss Hooper," she said confidently. "I will use _science_ to restructure the bones, since Mr. Holmes _staring at them _didn't work as a means of putting them back together."

"Juvenile," muttered Sherlock, making Molly almost jump.

Brennan continued, "Once that is done, we are likely to find cause of death, at which point I will form a hypothesis about the murder weapon, I will run tests using specially controlled surrogate weapons. I will then confirm or deny aspects of my hypothesis, if not the hypothesis itself, via trial and error. This will make it easier for Scotland Yard to find the killer, if there is one."

"Quaint," said Sherlock, smiling sardonically at Brennan. "Molly I'll need to see the clothing."

"You've already seen the clothing," she said.

"I need to see them again," he insisted.

"Okay, well," Molly said sheepishly. "It's all locked up in the evidence room."

She began shuffling toward one of the exits and Sherlock began to follow, taking long, luxurious strides. "I will use _every tool available to me_ (which is saying something) to discern whatever I can from the victim's clothing, and not stay confined within the narrow…"

"Sherlock," John scolded.

"…and that will make it easier for Scotland Yard," Sherlock finished, having the last word but cutting his speech short.

Once Sherlock was out of the room and Brennan was elbow-deep in bone chips and glue, John Watson and Seeley Booth looked at each other.

"Coffee?" asked Watson.

"Yeah," said Booth.

They left their respective geniuses to bask under the fluorescent lights.

* * *

At six the following morning, the foursome met up again, this time at a fast food restaurant on Baker Street, just down the block from 221. Booth and Watson each enjoyed an egg sandwich on toast, while the two titans downed coffee.

Brennan was running on one hours' sleep and Sherlock wasn't doing much better.

"So where are we?" Watson asked, referring to the investigation, almost afraid of the answer.

"I have an identity," Brennan and Holmes said in unison. Then, they looked at each other, both completely nonplussed, and a little offended.

Watson and Booth also looked at each other and exchanged private smiles.

"No, you don't," insisted Brennan. "There's no way you can get an ID just from looking at the clothing."

"And yet, I did," Sherlock said with a sneer. "How could you have found ID from a pile of bone dust?"

"They were chips, not dust."

"You actually put that mess back together?" John Watson asked Brennan. "That's fantastic! Amazing! They've had two or three different experts on that body, and no one could even begin to take the first step!"

"Then they weren't experts," said Dr. Brennan. "They were likely pathologists employed by the government, and not, by any means, at the top of their field. That's why you called me, isn't it? Well, more accurately, you called Booth because you were aware of his connection to me, and then he, in turn, engaged my expertise on your behalf."

"Yes, thank you for clearing that up, Dr. Brennan," Watson chuckled.

"I glued a lamp back together when I was a child," Sherlock said. "That didn't make me a porcelain expert."

"Okay, pipe down," Booth told him. "I used to like you, you know?"

"So what's this about an identity?" Watson asked uncomfortably, unwilling to let Agent Booth spar with Sherlock. He wasn't sure which one of them would kill the other if it came to blows.

"Jessica Leonard," Brennan and Holmes both blurted, anxious to beat the other to the punch.

"How the hell did you work that out?" Watson asked Sherlock.

"Do you remember my initial assessment of the victim?" Sherlock wanted to know, though he spoke quietly.

"That he was having a clandestine affair with a bleach blonde, whose hair you found clinging to the fabric of the trousers?" Watson was much less quiet. "That he was out in the middle of a heath wearing clothing with no identity markers on purpose so that he could meet his lover? Yes, I remember."

"Well, once certain truths came to light…" Sherlock began, lowering his voice further.

"The fact that she's a woman?" asked Brennan. "Which I confirmed last night."

"Bones," said Booth. "Shhh."

Sherlock ignored her. "…I looked at the clothing with a fresh perspective."

"It was _her_ hair, not the mistress' hair?" Watson wanted to know. He smiled at Sherlock indulgently, marvelling that for once, his friend was wrong.

"I also noticed some miniscule holes below the collar in the back of the shirt, where a tag had once been. Upon inspection, I recognised the stitching – two even stitches on each side with white silk thread: it's MacArdle's Apparel. I know because Mrs. Hudson keeps giving me their shirts,which I find simply hideous. I don't wear plad, I've never worn plaid, she's clearly never seen me wear plaid, so what would make her think that I would like eighteen plaid shirts, identical but for the oh-so-exciting array of colours?"

"I think she gets them wholesale from her nephew," John said. "Those shirts are bloody expensive."

"Exactly – they're all pretentious about their designs, giving them model numbers and only making a limited quanity of them. Each shirt is numbered. Once I found the number five hundred and eight on an inside tag near the underarm, it was easy. Only a few boutiques carry these horrible things, and they keep the shirts under warranty by having the buyer register online. The shirt had been purchased by Mr. Trent Leonard, who happens currently to have a bleach-blonde wife who is missing."

"Yes, well, I can confirm the identity of Jessica Leonard," said Dr. Brennan.

"I don't need you to confirm it," Sherlock retorted. "I can do that on my own, and I did."

"No, you formed a hypothesis, which would be laudable except you never took the next step to find proof. There are probably over a million bleach blondes in the London area, and/or Surrey, and any number of them could have some sort of relationship with Mr. Leonard. Could be his sister or his cousin or, as you originally hypothesized, could be a mistress. Could be almost anyone that put on his clothes, Mr. Holmes. However, the skull I glued together last night has a long, deep indentation across the right side of the mandible – an old one, partially but never all-the-way remodeled. It was probably from childhood and severe enough to have left a nasty scar. Only one woman of the age displayed by the bones is described as having a large scar on her jaw."

"It could be, Dr. Brennan, that another woman with a scar is _not_ on the missing person's list, and that is the person lying in the lab," Sherlock argued.

"But you can't argue with the bones, Mr. Holmes," she said. "It's there, I can see it – there is a dent, it is a fact. Unless you have DNA, a hair is just a hair – it's like dust in the wind, and a bleached hair is changeable almost by definition."

"Wait," Booth put in, putting both hands on the table. "Didn't you both come up with the same results?"

"Yes," they agreed, again in unison.

"Then what the hell are you fighting about?"


	4. Chapter 4

It was true, neither Temperance Brennan nor Sherlock Holmes were trained law-enforcement professionals, but both had spent enough time around cops and criminals to know that the first suspect in a murder investigation is always the spouse. However, since neither they nor Watson nor Booth had any actual jurisdiction in these matters, nor any authority to get the victim's husband into an interrogation room yet (Booth was still trying to get hold of some friends who could pull some strings), they had to use clandestine means.

Mr. Trent Leonard arrived at the lab at the appointed time. He had been told that the remains of his wife had been found, and that they needed someone to do some identification, though on the phone, Molly Hooper had been very careful (via Sherlock's prodding) not to say specifically that he would be identifying the remains.

"Why not?" she had asked, immediately regretting the question.

Sherlock had stared at her deadpan for a few seconds in disbelief, then he'd said, "A five-second glance at the remains should give you that answer, Molly, and I'd wager that you are now regretting asking, so we'll just move on." There had been a pause, and then he'd added, "Plus, there is one other advantage to not discussing the state of the remains with the spouse."

All those listening, even Molly, had understood his meaning and nodded along.

And so, "Good morning Mr. Leonard," Molly said cordially when the victim's husband stepped inside. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Let's just get this over with, shall we?" he said, rather more annoyed than sombre.

She led him into a part of the lab where evidence was examined, though not human remains. The expensive MacArdle's plaid shirt was laid out on a chrome table, torn in a few places, rotted in others and soaked with blood. Beside it was a pair of trousers, also an expensive brand, in much the same state.

And in that room waited two pairs of razor-sharp, inscrutible eyes and two ridiculously judicious brains.

"Who are you lot?" Leonard asked.

"This is Temperance Brennan and I am Sherlock Holmes," the taller of the two said. "We are both working on your wife's case."

Leonard responded with an uncomfortable ":Oh, hello," and then began gazing at the clothing on the table.

"These are mine," he said. "Was my wife wearing them?"

"Yes," Brennan said. "Do you have any idea why she would do that?"

At the sound of her voice Leonard's eyes snapped to hers, and he said, "American? Really?" He looked now back and forth between Sherlock and Molly and said, "Can she do that?"

"I assure you she can, now answer the question Mr. Leonard," Sherlock said with absolutely no sensitivity nor attempt to hide the fact that Mr. Leonard was a suspect.

"Erm, no, I don't have any idea why she would have been wearing my clothes," he answered.

"These clothes are rather expensive," Brennan pointed out. "You must be quite affluent. What do you do for a living?"

"Landscaping," Sherlock told her, on Mr. Leonard's behalf.

"Yes, landscaping," Leonard confirmed.

"How did you know that?" Brennan whispered.

"Look at his shoes and trouser cuffs – blackened with dirt, but not just any dirt: potting soil. He spends a lot of time climbing around amongst plants that have been planted specifically, and not just in pots, but on the ground. But he can't be an amateur gardener, which you would see if you looked at his hands. They are not callused from manual labour, nor are his fingernails blackened by the same soil. His white dress shirt is crisply pressed and still white. So, climbing about in soil but never getting one's hands dirty, coupled with the means and inclination to purchase a single hideous plaid shirt at two hundred pounds a pop? Owns his own landscaping business."

Leonard stared at Sherlock with disbelief and a bit of fear.

"Honestly Dr. Brennan, how _do_ you solve any crimes at all?" asked Sherlock.

"With access to the FBI database, we can find things out for certain without having to speculate based on the state of a person's pants," she told him, not happy.

"Trousers. You're in London now – pants are undergarments. Pay attention," he snapped.

"Excuse me," Mr. Leonard interjected. "Is this all you'll be needing from me?"

"Why do you assume this is all we need from you?" asked Sherlock, scrutinising the man.

"Er, I… what?" he asked.

"Answer the question, Mr. Leonard," Brennan demanded. "Or are you in a big hurry to leave?"

"As it happens, I do have other things to do," answered the man angrily. "You asked me here to identify some things – I've done that."

Sherlock and Brennan looked at each other, in the first sign of conspiratorial camaraderie they had shared since the Americans had arrived in London. They both knew, without asking, without sharing their thoughts, that they were thinking the same thing. Sometimes geniuses, even when their methods differ, can find themselves kindred in an unlikely moment.

They had him a bit on the ropes now, even if he didn't know it. And even Sherlock Holmes and Temperance Brennan had some inkling that they should tread lightly, if they wanted to keep him ignorant.

In theory, anyway. In execution, well…

"Time of death was determined as four months ago," Dr. Brennan said. "What was going on in your lives?"

"Well, I had just received a new, large contract which promised to bring in major cash," Leonard answered. "But that had nothing to do with Jessica."

"An account in Surrey?" asked Sherlock, unsubtly.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Holmes," replied Leonard, irritated. "No. Not in Surrey."

"Was your wife having an affair, Mr. Leonard?" asked Brennan.

"What kind of a question is that?" Leonard shouted.

"A remarkably insightful and pertinent one, coming from a mere scientist," Sherlock pointed out to the man. "So give the nice lady your answer, if you please."

Leonard's jaw dropped at the tone of Sherlock's voice. "You… you people are insufferable."

"You're wearing a three-hundred-pound shirt with a four-pound aftershave. And we're the insufferable ones?" Sherlock asked. After a pause, he asked, "Were you the one having an affair?"

"And if so, did she know about it?" Brennan added.

"And I'd suggest you tell us the truth," from Sherlock. "We have ways of finding out."

"In the first place, there are your phone records," Brennan continued. "We can track your calls – frequency and length, we could even subpoena recordings, if there are any."

"Those records will give us times of calls and location of signals, and CCTV footage might show us precisely where you were when you made the calls, and your body language will speak _volumes, _Mr. Leonard," said Sherlock. "When people don't think they're being watched, they do the darndest things."

"We can have your home searched for evidence of another female presence, and have your bedsheets tested for bodily excretions from someone other than you or your wife," from Brennnan. "And even if they have been washed, my team at the Jeffersonian is very, _very_ good. We have the most precise instruments for testing particulates, and possibly the best scientist in his field on the job there."

"We can also have your home observed," Sherlock threatened. "Your wife's belongings inspected, her handwriting analysed, her hairbrush looked at. Signs of stress and anger are very apparent, and you won't have even realised it."

Trent Leonard stood gaping at the two of them, absolutely at a loss. He certainly was not going to answer their questions, but he didn't know what the hell else to say! He had an idea that any threat would be met with bravado and that any mention of social decorum would be met with ignorance and more questions.

"I am not saying another word," he insisted. "This conversation, which should never have taken place to begin with, is over."

With that, the man turned on his heel and walked out of the lab through the door which he had used to enter.

* * *

What Brennan and Sherlock had missed was that during their ambush of Mr. Leonard, Molly Hooper had slipped out through a side door and gone into an office to use the phone.

"Dr. Watson?" she asked. "It's Molly. At the lab."

"Yes, Molly," Watson said. "What can I do for you?"

"Sherlock and Dr. Brennan are talking to Mr. Leonard now."

"Oh, that was quick. And?"

"They're putting him on the run," Molly said.

"How do you mean?"

"He's a suspect, that pretty much goes without saying, right?"

"Hang on, I'm going to put you on speaker so Agent Booth can hear." A click, and then, "Okay, say that again, Molly."

She took a deep breath. "Okay. The husband is almost certainly a suspect, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Booth. "The spouse is always the first person we look at."

"Well, I would say that there's a relatively good chance he did it, since Sherlock told me to call him and tell him to come in and identify some things," she explained, rather nervously. "And when he got here, he identified his own clothing which the victim had been wearing when the remains were found, but he did not ask why ne couldn't identify the remains themselves. Sherlock and Brennan laid that as a trap, to see if he'd ask. If he didn't…"

"…it meant that he might know that the remains were in no shape for identification," Booth finished. "They were seeing if he'd slip, and he did. Got it."

"Right," Molly said. "So, they're in there, and they're ambushing him from all sides. They're telling him about all the things they suspect and how they have their super-clever ways of finding out… it's like they can't help themselves! The two of them together… no subtlety whatsoever! They're like a couple of battering rams!"

"Well, you know our Sherlock," Watson said bitterly.

"Don't you see, they're going to make him clam up and get a lawyer! Or... they'll make him sue, and who could blame him? Dr. Watson, Sherlock needs a rescue, or he's going to make things worse."

"Okay," Watson said. "We're right next door at that diner. Is Mr. Leonard still there?"

Molly listened. Then she said, "It sounds like he just told them off and left!"

* * *

"Mr. Leonard, I presume," Watson said, striding in through the front lobby of the morgue, just as Trent Leonard was leaving in a huff. He was extending his hand for a shake, and didn't wait for the surprised man to reach out. He just took the hand and shook it.

Anyone watching would have been amazed at the utter forwardness and sprightly demeanour of the ordinarily reserved doctor.

"Y-yes," Leonard said. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I'm Dr. John Watson. I just received a call from one of my lab assistants – she was very concerned. I must apologise profusely on behalf of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Brennan," he said. "I heard they were rather unabashed with you."

"You could say that."

"Well, that is certainly not the policy of our establishment," Watson said. "We are not in the business of harrassing innocent men who have just lost their wives. So sorry to hear about that, sir."

"Thank you," Leonard said, still rather taken aback. "Who are those two, anyway?"

"They work here," Watson nodded, sighing, feigning exasperation. "Two of my best examiners – Dr. Brennan is one of our pathologists, on loan, if you will, from the Jeffersonian, and Holmes is a Ph.D. candidate. Brilliant in the lab, terrible with people. I keep telling them it is not their job to interrogate, but… you know how mad geniuses are. They get a bee in their bonnet and cannot let it go."

"Right."

"So please accept our apologies, Mr. Leonard," Watson said, this time holding out his hand for a firm shake, and waiting for the man to respond. "This will not happen again."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Watson," Leonard replied, shaking hands. "You do those two weirdos much credit."

John smiled.

When Trent Leonard was out of earshot, John ploughed through into the lab. He found Sherlock and Brennan with Molly. He hadn't heard what they'd been saying or doing, but Molly was in tears, Sherlock was standing with his fists clenched as though he'd been verbally machine-gunning her, and Brennan was frowning intensely.

Watson went to Molly and took her into a hug. "Okay, the two of you are _not_ allowed to talk to people from now on."

"I can't _believe _she called you," Sherlock spat. "I'm not a child! I'm not a bloody simpleton! I save that designation for…"

"Sherlock, shut up! Look at what you've done!" Watson shot back, gesturing to the crying woman.

A pause ensued, in which John actually dared to hope that one of them, in Molly's words, the "battering rams," would have the wherewithal to apologise to the lovely Miss Hooper, but no such luck.

"Where's Booth?" asked Dr. Brennan.

"He's still at the diner next door," Watson said. "We thought it best if Mr. Leonard didn't see him for now."


	5. Chapter 5

The episode which had alienated Mr. Leonard and made Molly cry, had thrown the two titans into a giant snit. They spent the next hour after Watson's chastisement blaming each other, and each others' methods, for the problem. They raged unchecked, as Watson had decided he was too disgusted with both of them to stop either of them.

So, while doing their own brand of examination over the next day, the two of them had not spoken to one another, nor communicated at all – they had each only spoken to their respective partner, who had helped where needed.

At the end of the day, they all met up once again at that same fast food place on Baker Street.

"So, what are we thinking?" Watson asked them, once everyone had sat down with their unhealthy dinner.

"I'm wondering if I should apologise to Molly," Sherlock said.

"It has taken you thirty-six hours to wonder this?"

"I've got things on my mind, John."

"Yes, you _should_ apologise to Molly," said Watson. "For practically every interaction you have ever had with her, in fact. But I'm afraid you'd screw it up, so just send her flowers."

"She's allergic to most florae," said Sherlock dismissively.

"She's told you that?"

"Course not. I can tell because she always wears that god-awful mango-scented body spray," Sherlock said, twisting up his lips. "Either that or cucumber-melon, which is slightly less objectionable. And she was holding away from her the clothes found in the heath, covered with pollen and weeds."

Brennan rolled her eyes.

"Is there a problem, Dr. Brennan?" asked Sherlock pointedly.

"You're ridiculous," she said, smiling with resignation. "You can tell she has allergies because her nose was swollen and flared and absolutely did not match her bone structure. You can tell it's florae because she had a welt on her arm indicative of a type of eczema, common in those who suffer from pollen-related hay fever. I think your flatmate, here, would concur."

Dr. Watson smiled a little, as though he'd never given it much thought. "Now you mention it, Dr. Brennan, I believe you're right."

"Are you using powers of observation, Dr. Brennan?" Sherlock asked, this time sweetly.

"I'm using science," she said. "Though admittedly, all I have is a hypothesis, I will likely not have the opportunity to experiment. The difference between your observation and mine is that I'm not using behavior and body language to make my hypothesis. I'm using my extensive training in anatomy and physiology, Mr. Holmes."

Booth buried his head in his hands and made a mild sound of frustration. "Agh! Would the two of you stop? Just stop!"

"So, send Molly some chocolates. And now, let me rephrase my question in the form of a request," Watson said, conceding defeat in this particular conversation. "Let's discuss our findings, shall we?"

"There were two murderers," Brennan and Sherlock said, at the same time, both eager to get their development out first.

"Oh, fantastic," Watson sighed, in response. He downed a big swig of Coke, hoping it would give him strength and patience – he knew what was next.

"That is to say, that upon examining the bones, I _hypothesized_ and subsequently all but confirmed that there were two murderers," Brennan clarified, much to the annoyance of all present. "As you know, I have reconstructed the skeleton from the pelvis, on up. What I found was that there are two indentations in the pelvis, and several others on different parts of the skull."

"I hesitate to ask this, but are you certain that these indentations are not simply indicators of bone having been chipped away as a result of the skeleton shattering?" Watson wanted to know.

"Why did you call me in the examine the bones if you're just going to question my expertise, John?"

"Ever so sorry, Dr. Brennan," he replied, annoyed. He reckoned he should have heistated further.

"I can tell the difference between a bone that has been lacerated by a tool, and one that has been broken – the appearance of the edges of the fissures are entirely dissimilar."

"Blah, blah, blah," said Sherlock, moving his hand like a blabbering puppet. "If you're not going to get to the point, then I'll have to take over. I went to the scene of the murder…"

"We don't know that it was the scene of the murder," Brennan corrected. "Merely where the body was found. In fact, it is unlikely that it was the scene of the murder, since there's been no mention of blood in the soil from the initial crime scene analysis."

"…and I discovered that the boulder did not originate there in the field."

"Did you test the compounds in the rock against the isotopes in the soil?" she asked.

"No, why would I do that?" Sherlock asked. "All I had to do was look about. According to the weather report, it has been extraordinarily dry over that section of England over the past four months since the body was left there – there's been no rain whatsoever. Grass growing and wind blowing (and no rain) would have erased any trace of tire tracks, but not a giant indentation in the soil where a boulder had rested likely for hundreds, if not thousands or more years, and then been rolled away."

"That is speculation, and it tells us nothing about dual murderers," Brennan dismissed. "On the other hand, I was able to tell from the evidence that the indentations – stab wounds – in the pelvis and head came from two completely different instruments. Those in the pelvis came from a relatively blunt, thick instrument, pointed like a knife, but without the precision of a knife. Those on and around the skull, specifically around the lower ridge of the right side of the mandible, and in the eye sockets, came from a much sharper implement, like a very new kitchen knife."

"And this isn't speculation?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"It is drawing a logical conclusion from years of experience and having seen a myriad of different weapons and their effect on bones," she answered. "I did, of course, test my theory by having Booth requisition a variety of different weapons from storage at Scotland Yard, and comparing their relative hardness coupled with their measurements against the marks left in the bones."

"You were able to get in?" Watson asked Booth.

"Yeah, finally got a hold of an old friend," Booth said. "Kate Pritchard."

"You want testing?" Sherlock asked Brennan. "The boulder itself is also in storage as evidence, and John and I paid it a little visit today. Since the boulder did not originate in that field, then someone drove it out there. Whoever that someone was, he had to have pushed it out of a lorry and onto the body."

"That is a reasonable conclusion," she conceded.

"I know, Dr. Brennan," he growled. "One side of the boulder has streaks of red paint, probably from being scraped along the flatbed as it was being pushed."

"Did you get a sample of the paint?" asked Agent Booth. "We might be able to trace the truck."

"No," Sherlock replied, looking at Booth as though the question were so annoyingly pedestrian, he almost couldn't fathom it. "I leave the simpleton tasks to the professionals. Anyway, as I was saying… John and I obtained a large piece of metal from the flatbed of a pick-up, from a landfill outside of town. We used some hoisting equipment, often used for larger pieces of evidence, to set the boulder atop the painted piece of metal. And then John and I heaved it. The thing rolled."

"Oh, I see," Agent Booth said with a raise of the eyebrows. "At least I think I do – keep talking."

"John and I are both, more or less, of average size and strength. And the thing rolled. It did not scrape. No trace of paint was left on the boulder. However, when I asked Molly Hooper, again, more or less average size and strength, to help me push, the boulder did not roll – it scraped and left paint. The simple disparity of physical strength between the average man and the average woman was the deciding factor."

Sherlock and Brennan stared at each other for a long moment, the latter acting rather annoyed. Then she spoke.

"The implement that was driven into the pelvis was blunt, and dug into the bone at approximately twenty-eight hundred pounds per square inch," she explained, never taking her eyes away from Sherlock's. "The implement driven into the skull and eye sockets was sharp, and came with a force of more like seventeen-hundred pounds per square inch. Much less force, but a sharper weapon, and lethal nonetheless."

"I'll say it again, Dr. Brennan," Sherlock mumbled. The simple disparity of physical strength between the average man and the average woman was the deciding factor."

John Watson cleared his throat. "So are we agreed that the killers were one man and one woman?"

"Yes," Sherlock and Brennan said in unison, still staring.

"The victim was attacked by one male and one female assailant with two different weapons, was killed, then loaded into a truck with a giant boulder and driven out to the middle of nowh… sorry, out to a heath, dumped, and pinned to the ground by the boulder, pushed from the truck by her killers," Booth explained. "This is our scenario?"

"Yes," they repeated.

"Dr. Brennan," John said. "You said Booth was able to borrow a variety of different weapons. Have you determined what was used on the victim's pelvis, presumably by a man?"

"Not yet," she answered, finally taking her eyes away from Sherlock. "The woman used a Cutco kitchen knife on the jawline and eye sockets – that's all we were able to ascertain, as far as weapon identification."

"Could it have been garden clippers?" asked John. "You know, those big, scary foot-long scissor things that cut branches from bushes?"

Brennan and Booth looked at each other.

"Heh," Booth smirked, sitting up straight. "I'll bet that's exactly what it was."

"Isn't the victim's husband a landscaper?" asked Brennan.

"Of course he is," Sherlock sneered. "I told you that. Besides, who else would have a boulder just sitting about in the flatbed of a lorry?"

"So the bastard _was_ having an affair," Booth said.


	6. Chapter 6

The four of them watched from a room on the third floor of Scotland Yard's offices, as Trent Leonard drove up and exited his vehicle.

"A red lorry," Dr. Watson muttered.

"Amazing, John," Sherlock muttered back. "I believe I must have underestimated you in the past."

John flashed him two fingers in the vulgar "V" signal.

"Now, now," said Sherlock.

"I'm still angry with you for making Molly cry."

"Guys, look at the scrapes in the flatbed," Booth interjected.

"Again, amazing," Sherlock muttered, this time to Agent Booth. "It's a wonder you're not…"

"You know what? You're on my last nerve, pal," Booth interrupted. "And honestly, the fact that you don't have a perpetual black eye is just a freakin' miracle."

Sherlock looked at him, made no expression, and then went back to observing the man with the red landscaping truck with scrapes in the flatbed.

And then someone else appeared near the truck below.

It was Dr. Brennan, coming through the front door of the building. None of them had noticed that she had walked away.

"Aw, jeez, Bones, what're you doing?" Booth whined, turning toward the stairwell.

"Booth, let me handle this," John suggested. "You go… wait in the room."

As the three men piled down the stairs, Sherlock commented, "We know he did it, along with some woman, probably a lover."

"Yeah, we have means," Booth replied. "We need to establish motive and opportunity. Don't we?"

"Yes," agreed John. "But again, most likely he had a lover."

"But then why wouldn't he just get divorced? No, we need more than that if we're going after this guy for murder."

At the bottom of the stairs, Booth turned right and went toward the interrogation room. Watson and Sherlock strode out through the front door and met Brennan and Mr. Leonard in front of the building.

"Dr. Watson," Leonard exclaimed. "Please get this woman away from me!"

"What seems to be the problem?" Watson wanted to know.

"I merely am asking permission to search his vehicle," she said, brandishing a small device with a blacklight on the end. "I will be searching for traces of blood."

"Dr. Brennan," John said gently. "Is this any way to treat a man who has come to aid our investigation?"

"What?" she asked.

"Mr. Leonard, it's clear you were having an affair, and as you were asked the other day, did your wife know about it?" Sherlock wanted to know, plundering in once more.

"And I told you the other day that I would not answer questions like that," Leonard replied.

"Mr. Leonard, what do you use to trim bushes?" Brennan asked.

"What height is your girlfriend, Mr. Leonard?" from Sherlock.

"How long ago was this truck purchased?" from Brennan.

"I'd say that you're below average in height and weight," Sherlock commented. "But perhaps your job has made you above-average, strength-wise."

"Has the truck been painted since you bought it? What year is this model?"

Once again, the landscaper appeared totally at a loss as he looked back and forth between the two unduly meticulous interrogators.

"Dr. Brennan, Mr. Holmes," John said, this time frustration coming through. "Mr. Leonard is here to help. He will be speaking with Agent Booth. I will deal with the two of you later. Come along Mr. Leonard."

As John and Leonard entered the building, Leonard said, "Is there any way to get those two off my wife's case?"

"I'm afraid not," said John. "I am not in charge of who works which case. All I can do is try to keep them tamed."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Sorry to have to say it. Mr. Leonard, they don't mean to offend, they are just hungry for the truth, and unfortunately, they don't handle it very well. I'll do my best to keep them away from your person, until the undoubted clearing of your name occurs."

"Thank you again, Dr. Watson," Leonard said. By now the two of them had stopped in front of a door marked _Questioning #1._ The two shook hands as John gestured for him to go inside.

* * *

As Agent Booth sat in the interrogation room waiting for John Watson to lead Trent Leonard to slaughter, he thought absently about what Sherlock had said. He had been right – they all more or less _knew_ that Leonard was guilty, but the current evidence was merely circumstantial. But then, Booth had been in that situation countless times. The challenge was to find motive, and to connect the suspect to the crime scene.

The door opened after a not-too-long wait, and Booth stood to "welcome" the man into the room.

"Mr. Leonard, thank you for coming in, we appreciate your help," Booth said, shaking the man's hand. "I'm Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI. I'm working in conjuction with Scotland Yard on your wife's case."

"Oh good, another American," said Leonard.

Booth smiled. "I see you've met Dr. Brennan," he said. "She's a tough one."

Leonard softened. "She surely is. As is that assistant of hers."

"Well, rest assured, Dr. Brennan and I differ greatly in our methods."

"Fine," Leonard said, sitting down. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, first of all, I was wondering if you had thought of anything new," Booth said. "Something you saw or heard around the time of the murder, something unusual. Sometimes things like this start to come back to you after a few months – I've seen it happen."

Leonard seemed to think it over. "Nothing is coming to mind," he said. "It's like I told the detectives who first brought me in: when you don't know anything is going on, you just don't notice _other_ things. It's not like I could have said to myself 'my wife is being stabbed – better take note of the time, temperature, position of the neighbours and their cars.'"

_Stabbed_, he had said. Brennan and Sherlock (and Molly) had been pretty careful to keep the condition of the body under wraps.

"Right," Booth answered with a slight smile. "So… they brought you _here_ when they first questioned you?"

"Yeah," Leonard said. "I reckoned I must be a suspect."

"A safe assumption," shrugged Agent Booth. "Under normal circumstances, unfortunately. You understand, don't you?"

"Sure," answered Leonard, holding his arms out widely. "The spouse is always a suspect. You've got to do what you've got to do."

"Erm, sir, are you sure you don't need an attorney here with you?"

"I've got nothing to hide, Agent Booth. My solicitor has not advised me to bring him along to all these little meetings, and I think that is wise."

"So you do _have_ a lawyer."

"Of course. A businessman has to protect his interests."

Booth knew that Mr. Leonard had a lawyer, and that the lawyer had found some stupid legal loophole to keep the investigative team from searching the Leonards' home once Jessica Leonard had been declared missing.

"So why don't you tell me about the day when your wife disappeared," Booth said. Then with a self-deprecating air, he added, "I mean, I know you've probably already told that story a hundred times…"

And indeed, Booth had looked over the file which included the story of Mr. Leonard's day, up to the point where he called his wife in as missing. It was a short, unremarkable story. A lot of times, these stories seemed too detailed, too practiced, and he was able to catch them out in a lie. This story didn't contain anything out-of-the-ordinary, so, he was hoping to get more today.

"Well, I had been out shopping," he began to explain. "I came home, Jessica wasn't there. It was a little unusual because it was a Wednesday – she didn't volunteer at the hospital that day _or_ have her painting class, so I wasn't sure where she was. But I didn't get worried until later, when five hours had gone by and she wasn't home yet. That was not like her at all."

"What had you been shopping for?" asked Booth.

"A mobile phone," answered Leonard. Upon first assessment, Booth figured that Leonard was probably telling the truth about this. "I had lost mine over the week-end sometime."

"Oh, that sucks," Booth commiserated. "I hate when that happens. I lost mine on an airplane once. There ain't no gettin' _that _one back."

"Very true," Leonard agreed. "For me it was… I think in our bedroom where I last saw it. I used it to send a text on Friday night and I remember leaving it on my night stand. Next thing I remember, I wanted it and couldn't find it."

"You must have done something with it in-between."

"Yeah. Must have."

"That was four months ago," Booth said. "Did you ever find your original phone?"

"No."

"What did you do over that weekend?"

"Well, Jessica went to visit her mother in Banbury, came back late Monday night," he answered. "I spent the weekend on my own."

"Didn't feel like spending your Saturday with the mother-in-law, eh?"

"No, I didn't!" Leonard confirmed.

"I hear that."

"And going to church on Sunday… not my bag."

"I hear that one too," Booth agreed, though obviously _that_ was a lie.

"Mr. Leonard…"

"Call me Trent."

"Okay, Trent. Well, I'm sorry we haven't been able to find out what happened to your wife, but we will soon."

"I hope so. Thanks, Agent Booth."

"I'm sure you want this investigation to go as quickly as possible so you can have closure."

"Absolutely."

"So I'm sure you won't mind if we take a look-see in your home."

"Oh," Leonard said, a little surprised. "I… suppose… why?"

"We'll just need to look for any indicator of where your wife might have gone on that Wednesday afternoon when she disappeared."

"I've told the police, I haven't found any trace."

"Well, I'm sure you want the world's best-trained eyes to have a peek as well, so we can find the bastard that killed her."

"Well… okay. Sure.


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter is oh-so-short, but I hope you are taken with it... this is not an easy story to tell!**

* * *

When Booth met up with Brennan, Sherlock and Watson in the AV room where they had watched and listened to the interview on a screen, a detective was sitting with them. He introduced himself as Lestrade.

"Can you access his text message history?" Booth asked. "Find out what that last text message said, on the Friday night before his wife disappeared?"

"I can try," Lestrade answered. "And, I must say, nice move getting him to let us search his home. But I'm getting the feeling that I've missed something."

"Don't you always?" Sherlock grumbled.

One hour later, Lestrade met up with the group at a Starbucks across the street, and said, "The final text message," handing a sheet of paper to Agent Booth. "Classy gent."

"Whoa, I thought you Brits were all proper and stuff," Booth said, reading the message. "I guess the question of whether he was having an affair, if there was a question, has now been answered."

"And there is a forensics team in the Leonard home right now."

"Do they really need permission?" Brennan asked. "I mean, Booth practically begged the man to allow the search. Isn't there such a thing as probable cause here?"

"Yes, but…" Lestrade began.

"I threw him off the scent," Booth said. "By telling him specifically what we are looking for, he thinks he can beat us at our own game. When actually, we're looking for something entirely different."

"What are they looking for?" she wanted to know.

"Fingerprints," Lestrade, Sherlock and Booth answered, all at once.

* * *

Back at Watson's and Sherlock's flat, after a passable meal prepared by Mrs. Hudson, the team of four sat and drank wine. Everyone but Sherlock chatted. He sulked, as usual, over his boredom with the universe at large.

Around half-past seven, Dr. Watson's phone rang, and it was Lestrade. Watson put him on speaker.

"There are fingerprints all over the Leonards' flat, belonging to Abbie Henshaw, arrested four years ago on a drunk driving charge," said Lestrade. "She's a hairdresser in Surrey."

"Okay, getting closer," Booth said,

"But that's not all," Lestrade announced. "The Leonards own a set of Cutco knives."

"Still circumstantial," Brennan commented.

"The only fingerprints on the knives belong to the victim, but there are traces of the powder used in rubber cleaning gloves, and also traces of various chemicals used in permanent solution on one of them."

"Permanent solution as in… hair perms?" Watson asked.

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed. "That stuff doesn't just rub off with soap and water."

"Again, circumstantial," Sherlock grunted.

"Maybe," said Booth. "But in America it would be enough to make an arrest."

"Here too, I should think," John agreed.

"Let's bring her in," Booth said.

Sherlock stood up and began to pace.

"What's the problem?" asked John.

"It still doesn't add up," Sherlock answered. "Means, opportunity, evidential ties, sure. But motive. It's still shaky."

"Well, clearly the wife saw the final text message and took the phone away, went to visit her mother for the weekend because she was distraught," Watson said. "Right?"

"Yes, but what did she do that made them want to kill her?" Sherlock asked, teeth clenched, eyes darting about. "Lestrade, Booth, I think you'll find that if you call her mother, she was never there."

"Why would Trent Leonard lie about that?" asked Brennan.

"He didn't," Booth said, catching up to Sherlock. "His wife lied to _him_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay! This is the final chapter.**

**I hope you are intrigued/pleased with the way this little mystery ties itself up. But more than that, I hope you have been entertained by the interaction between Brennan and Sherlock, and their wing-men, Booth and Watson. If I could have written a 'My Dinner With Andre' -style conversation piece, I would have, but it did not seem prudent to write a Bones/Sherlock crossover without a murder mystery involved! It was my first... perhaps not last, but at least the last for a while! The logistics of murder are exhausting, especially when you don't have a forensic anthropologist or a borderline-autistic genius on-hand for consultation!**

**Thanks for "watching" - it's been fun!**

* * *

The next morning, when Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan arrived to interrogate Abbie Henshaw, Lestrade had some bad news.

"A new wrench, I'm afraid," he said. "The mother is corroborating the wife's story."

"So the victim _was_ with her mother in Banbury over the weekend?" Brennan asked.

"The mother says yes," Lestrade answered.

"Damn," Booth said. "I could have sworn I was right. Or really, that Sherlock was."

"Well, sometimes Sherlock's wrong," Lestrade shrugged. "Not often, but it does happen."

"Where are they, anyway?" Booth asked. "He and John said they were leaving at the same time as we did. They should be here by now."

As if on cue, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson came through the door. Booth updated them on the "new wrench," as Lestrade had called it.

"Impossible," Sherlock said. "She was _not_ with her mother."

"Then where the hell was she?" John asked.

"She was in Surrey, spying on her husband and the girlfriend," Sherlock said, annoyed. "Honestly, how can you ask that?"

"Well, maybe because I wasn't there, I don't connect random things, and a witness is corroborating a different story, Sherlock," John answered in his own annoyed way. "I don't live inside your world, I'm afraid."

Sherlock sighed. "Don't I know it. Look, she finds the text message. She either recognises the number as a Surrey number, or she has it traced. She dresses in the husband's clothes so she can't be recognised even as a woman, and she spends the weekend tracking down and spying on the husband and the mistress. If she didn't confront her husband straight away, then this is what she did. It's human nature."

"What the hell would you know about humans?" asked Lestrade.

Everyone ignored the jab.

"We still don't know for sure that she _didn't_ confront him," Booth said.

"If we are fairly certain that her husband killed her, and I think we are, then he would have killed her _then_, alone, instead of waiting to conspire with his girlfriend," Sherlock reasoned, getting jinned up for a tirade.

"You think?"

"Of course," Sherlock shot at him. "Businessman, mover, shaker, _literally_ gets his feet dirty but not his hands. He's efficient. He's no fuss, no muss. He'd have got rid of her _well_ before all this rubbish."

"Maybe," conceded Booth. "In any case, the girlfriend is waiting. Isn't she?"

"Yep," said Lestrade. "She's in the room." He gestured towards the door.

Booth stepped inside with Brennan right behind him.

"Hello, Miss Henshaw," he said. "I'm Agent..."

Brennan grabbed his wrist with intensity then, and said, "Can I talk to you outside?"

"What? Now?"

"Yes! Now!"

"Excuse us, please," Booth said to the attractive brunette at the table inside the interrogation room, who had not said a word, but looked worried and confused all at once.

Booth and Brennan stepped back out, and shut the door.

"They're sisters," Brennan said.

"Who?"

"Jessica and Abbie!" she exclaimed, and Booth shushed her. She lowered her voice and said, "The wife and the mistress! Sisters!"

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked, suspicious.

"Their bone structure is practically identical," Brennan insisted. "If I were doing a reconstruction of Jessica Leonard's skull – well, more accurately, if I was having it done by someone with more artistic talent than I have, i.e. Angela…"

"Right, I get it, Bones," Booth sighed.

"… it would look like Abbie Henshaw. Or _reasonably _enough like her to make me fairly certain that they are related. Given the similarity, their ages..."

"...and the mother's involvement!" Sherlock added with a fluorish.

"Yep," Brennan said, agreeing with Sherlock, amazingly. "They're sisters. I'm sure of it!"

"Is Jessica's maiden name Henshaw?" Watson asked.

"No, it's Ridge," said Lestrade. "But Abbie has been married. I can check into her ex-husband's name."

"The mother must know that Abbie helped kill Jessica," Booth said. "She's protecting her by putting Jessica someplace else that weekend? Wait… let me get my mind around this. So, Jessica..."

"Jessica was going to kill her sister Abbie, for shagging her husband," Sherlock chimed in, overtaking Agent Booth rather impatiently. "And dressed in Trent's clothes to make it look like he did it. Fibres, cologne, witnesses from afar… it would all add up to one of Trent in one of his stupid MacArdle's shirts."

"They must have seen her lurking," Booth decided.

"Chased her down in the field with the truck, and when they realised why she had the knife…" said Lestrade.

"…they pre-emptively killed her with what was handy!" Brennan shouted. "The knife _she_ was carrying, and garden clippers from the truck."

"And of course, the boulder," John added.

"Bravo," Sherlock said, though no one was certain whether he was talking to them, to himself, or commenting on Trent Leonard.

"Let's get in there," Brennan said.

"No, I will go in," Booth told her, as he would speak to a child. "You and Sherlock are on probation now."

"Good man," John said, slapping Booth on the shoulder and walking away. "I'll be having a Scotch if anyone wants to join me."

After a slight stunned pause, Brennan said, "Yeah, I guess I could use a Scotch," and she followed Watson toward the door.

"Anyone have a cigarette?" asked Sherlock.

"Would you behave, please?" Watson chided.

* * *

It had been just over a week when Booth and Brennan finally left London and headed home to their little girl. John and Sherlock insisted on accompanying them to the airport.

Or, rather, John insisted on accompanying them, and insisted that Sherlock come along.

"Sherlock, isn't there something you'd like to say to Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth?" John asked as they stood in the terminal exchanging handshakes and goodbyes.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I'm sorry I tried to send you back to the States in a kayak. That would have been extraordinarily dangerous, as I don't imagine that either of you have much experience in rowing. And the north Atlantic is mightily cold at almost any time of the year." He did not make eye contact, nor show any emotion when he spoke.

"Sherlock," John scolded.

Sherlock paused, and reluctantly caught Brennan's eye. He sighed with annoyance, broke contact for a moment and shuffled his feet.

"Go on," encouraged his flatmate.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Brennan, and for realising that the victim was female," he said, irritated with himself and most everything else. "I must admit that it's fairly probable I would never have noticed."

"Mr. Holmes, I accept your thanks," Brennan announced regally, rather proud of herself. She genuinely thought she was making a concession and being a bigger person.

"Bones," Booth scolded/encouraged, in very much the same tone as John Watson had said Sherlock's name a few moments earlier.

"What?" she asked.

"Come on."

"What? He didn't make any insights that changed the case."

"Dr. Brennan, I believe that your partner is wanting you to concede something to me, namely that my methods led me to the same conclusions as yours, and that you may have been wrong in attacking the way I investigate," Sherlock said.

"I see," said Brennan. "I don't feel ready to make that concession."

"Then don't," Sherlock shrugged. "I understand why doing such a thing would make someone such as you feel threatened."

Her mouth scrunched up in anger, and she suddenly felt immeasurably glad that she was going home to Washington D.C., to her daughter, her dad, her lab, to a life with people she understood how to talk to… as much as she understood how to talk to anyone.

"I will concede, however, that…" she began. She gulped hard and looked at Booth. "It's obvious that I can't do this job by myself, and I am usually appreciative of insights that help push a case forward."

"Very big of you, Dr. Brennan," Sherlock practically whispered.

"And I will admit that I was…"

"What?" Sherlock wanted to know, suddenly interested.

"I was impressed by the range of your knowledge."

"Really?"

"Yes. In spite of your gross lack of education, your intellect is… nothing short of staggering and I believe that you _could_ waste your talent, and you have chosen not to. This is laudable, and I wish you the best of luck in your case work."

The two shook hands and smiled at one another for the first time.

A pause, and then Booth spoke. "John, you're a great guy. Hope we see each other again."

They shook hands.

"Likewise, Booth," John said. "Thanks for making the trip."

Booth sported a big smile and he looked at Brennan. "Did you see how easy that was? Sheesh. Ready to go?"

Once more, they exchanged goodbyes, and the two Americans turned and stood at the back of the line to go through security.

As Sherlock and Watson walked away, Sherlock commented, "They are so different, those two. I wonder how they can live together."

Watson chuckled. "Agent Booth is a very, very patient man."

Sherlock just kept walking alongside him, not having heard John at all.


End file.
